


The Bloody Cosmos

by rianaria



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: F/M, Post-Season/Series 05 AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-18
Updated: 2017-12-18
Packaged: 2019-02-16 18:35:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13059774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rianaria/pseuds/rianaria
Summary: I seem to only be able to write sad FitzSimmons, but this one's...um, less sad?





	The Bloody Cosmos

“Hi," he says.  
"Hi," she says.  
She ignores the flutter in her chest when he smiles at their unintentional synced greeting. She chooses instead to appraise his current state. He is shivering and wet; half-drowned really. Puddles of water trail from her front door to the door of the stairs to her floor. She wonders why he chose five flights of rickety stairs in lieu of the elevator.  
He leans slightly against her doorstep. His fingers drag against the peeling paint. He’s nervous. Maybe he needed the exercise to gather up his courage. He grips a bouquet of flowers that may have once looked decent if they hadn't been dunked into a large pool of water. He motions as if to present her with the flowers, thinks better of it and lets them drip at his side.  
She sighs feeling a small release of tightness in her chest as she makes up her mind. She hopes he doesn’t notice. She opens the door wider and tilts her head to beckon him inside. The gesture of courtesy should not be misconstrued as a sign of concession; although she can already feel her resolve weakening. She turns her back to him to go find him a towel, and hears his steps squish through her foyer. She purses her lips together to keep from smiling. She suppresses the urge to follow her imagination along the path a smile on her lips may take her.   
"Thanks," he says when she hands him the towel.  
He surveys the room for a bit eyes darting with rising distress trying to figure out how to dry himself and give up the flowers in his hand. She observes his child-like panic while backing herself a considerable distance from where he's standing. His eyes catch hers and she relents at his helplessness seizing the flowers from his grasp.  
"Thank you," she says taking the words from his mouth.   
She walks over to the kitchen to find a vase, a gesture that's meant more to give her something to do rather than putting them on display.  
"How are you," he asks.  
"Fine," she says. "How are you?"  
She has looked through half a dozen cupboards to no avail. What had she done with that vase? Did it survive the moving disaster of 2010? That one time she read Maria Kondo and purged half of her belongings? She shudders. She opens another cupboard and stares into it in disappointment. She admits defeat, and splays the flowers against the sink in resignation. She takes a moment to glance down. Daisies. Her face softens as she trails her finger against one of the petals. A shame they’re soaked. She loves daisies, in friend and flower form. She shakes her head trying to clear her head, and looks back up at him a frown fixed to her lips. He is smiling at her with amusement.   
"I'm terrible," he says.  
His response disarms her enough to smile genuinely. She recalibrates, refusing the laugh that threatens to rise in her throat. He's grinning at her like a damn fool, and he's terrible.  
He's clutching the towel around his shoulders smiling at her without permission. Water still drips from the blond curls on his head. Her arms are folded across her chest, but her grin remains unbidden. Her head tilts to the side and she clears her throat and tries to steady her voice.  
"What are you doing," she asks.  
"I'm freezing," he says.  
She turns her head to look out the window. It hasn't stopped raining since this morning and doesn't look like it'll let up anytime soon. She breaks his gaze to look at the floor as if weighing a decision in her mind. She clears her throat and walks towards a linen closet. She pulls up on her tiptoes for a bin on the top shelf and fetches a men’s sweatshirt and pants.  
She presents the neatly folded bundles to him in as casual-do-not-read-into-this-it’s-really-no-big-deal a way as possible. He beams at her.  
“Give me your coat,” she says.  
He pulls the soggy garment from off his shoulders, and hands it off to her with gratitude. She ignores his gaze and wrings out the coat in the sink, the flowers getting an unwelcome shower.  
He shuffles to the bathroom, his shirt and pants clinging to his body. After he closes the door, she breathes a soft sigh. She closes her eyes. She hadn’t realized until just then that she had been holding her breath.  
“What are you doing,” she thinks.  
She looks around at her surroundings as if they can provide her an adequate answer. After a beat of silence from the universe, she automatically starts to make tea. She’s fiddling with the electric kettle when she hears him exit the bathroom. She doesn’t turn around even as his footsteps draw near. She’ll probably need to turn around at some point. She doesn’t. She opens a cupboard and takes out two mugs. She goes to the pantry, and pulls out the tea bags. She gets milk and sugar and spoons and all the while her back is to him. When she’s run out of supplies to fetch and arrange she just stares at the kettle, feeling his eyes on her back.   
“The clothes don’t smell like me anymore,” he says. “They smell like you.”  
She turns around at this comment.  
“It’s a good smell,” he says.   
She opens her mouth as if to respond when the kettle clicks ready. She turns away from him again to attend to the tea. She draws out the process as long as she can, and he is inclined to let her do it in silence. He walks over to a barstool and sits down, observing her as she is actively ignoring him. She can still feel his eyes on her back. She shudders and hopes he doesn’t notice.  
“You shouldn’t be here,” she says unable to turn around.  
“I can go,” he says. “Do you want me to go?”  
The tightness in her shoulders relaxes just a bit, she finally turns around. She hands him his favorite mug. It’s old. Her family’s hand-me-down when she went to college. It used to be red. It’s scratched badly on one side. She always threatened to throw it out one day, but he told her it kind of resembled the moon Europa, and he liked to be reminded of beautiful things.   
“Why are you here?” she asks.   
He shrugs. “I wanted to see you.”  
She looks down at her tea as it steeps. She shakes her head as she struggles with what to say back.  
“Was that wrong?” he asks.  
She looks up at him, and nods.   
He nods his head in time with hers.   
“I’m sorry,” he says.  
She turns her head away from him quickly. This is not how she had envisioned her afternoon going. Reading a backlog of medical journals, sure. Browsing make-up tutorials on YouTube, probably a whole afternoon. But not this, not him. She hadn’t even hoped for him. She straightens, furious at herself for the betrayal of her emotions.   
“I missed you,” he says.  
He steps off the barstool and comes around to where she’s standing. She takes a step back, and he freezes wondering if he’s misread her. She shakes her head. There’s a slight fear in her eyes, and he hangs his head low ashamed.  
“I’m so sorry,” he says.  
He sets the mug on her counter and retreats. She relaxes at his retreating frame, a relief from the implications of his presence if not actually his presence. Soon a new fear creeps over her. She doesn’t know what to do, what to say, but suddenly she wonders if this will be the last time she ever sees him again. She watches him disappear for a moment into the bathroom, resurface with his wet clothes in his arms and head straight for her front door barefoot. He drops down to pick up his shoes, stuffs his wet socks into them and places them atop the mound of clothes.  
There is no drag to his movements, but there’s not exactly a rush either. She can’t see his face. What must he be thinking?  
As his hand touches the doorknob, she takes a quick breath and says, “Wait.”  
He freezes.  
“You should finish your tea,” she says.  
He turns around trying to keep the hope from his expression.  
“Yeah?” he says testing the water.  
“Yeah,” she says.  
The edges of her voice are still shaky.  
They meet each other halfway. She reaches for his clothes, and hands him back his mug.  
“Drink your tea, get warm, and after that…” she starts.  
He quirks his head slightly.  
“…we’ll have a chat,” she finishes.  
“Yeah?” he says.  
She nods. “I’m not a monster.”  
She observes how hard he is trying not to grin at her, to keep his face passive. He is trying with his whole face; the corners of his mouth twitching slightly. She probably should stop looking at his mouth.  
She takes his clothes back to the bathroom to hang to dry over her shower rail. A shiver runs down her spine. Something about this feels…not wrong exactly, but not...she stops. He is holding his mug in the middle of her living room trying to decide where to sit. He turns to the bar stools, then the couch, then the kitchen, then back to the bar stools, and down again. It is hardly his fault for her lack of furniture. She frowns. She never did get that breakfast nook.  
She clears her throat, and he jumps slightly. He cups the side of his mug as some tea sloshes to the side, and licks his hand as the tea slides down to his wrist. She pretends not to notice, glides past him and sits down on the barstool. He joins her with a little relief.  
She hands him the sugar, and grabs the milk for herself. They dispose of their teabags and stir their cups in silence. He takes a sip. Then she takes a sip. She starts to relax a little. He is looking at her out of the corner of his eye, and she is pretending she doesn’t notice. She sets the spoon down on the counter and takes another sip.  
She can’t remember his beard ever being that long, just an inch or so off his chin. His eyelashes are so long. Had she forgotten how long they were? They’d touch his face when he blinks, which would be happening if he was blinking, which he’s not. He’s staring straight ahead. His unease is strangely relaxing. She looks away from him in the direction of his own staring. The least she could do is have the decency to share in his discomfort. She can’t quite manage it though.  
He breathes deeply, and she holds in her breath.  
“Have I ruined it?” he asks.  
She looks at him from the corner of her eye. She can’t read his expression. Not sad. Not hopeful. Not resigned. She had once thought she knew all of his faces.  
She looks back at her tea and takes a sip. He finally gets enough courage to face her now. She swallows and sets down her mug. She tries to proceed with measured kindness.  
“Yes,” she says. “But surely you know that.”  
His breath catches in his throat, and then he nods to himself. The resigned acceptance weighs down the gait of his frame. She can’t bear it.  
“I mean you walked for lord knows how long in that rain, you’re just asking to sacrifice your good shirt and trousers,” she says.  
He looks at her like she’s mad, but he’s coming around to it.  
“I’m pretty sure they’ll never quite fit the same way again,” she says.  
He looks down at his lap smiling and nodding to himself at her attempt at humor. She grins, and leans into him.  
“I’m sorry,” she says placing a hand on his shoulder. “That was mean.”  
She jostles his shoulder in a friendly way, and he crosses his arm to place his hand over hers. The tension clears for them both, and they smile back at each other in relief.  
“I have missed you,” she says.  
The admission isn’t confessional or attached to some greater meaning. It is what it is.  
“Still my best friend then?” he asks.  
They drop hands and they swivel their chairs to face each other fully.  
“You’ve been away,” she says. “And now that you’re here, I don’t what that means. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”  
“I know,” he says, “I’m so sor—”  
She takes his hand in hers to cut him off. “Still best friends.”  
He shuts his mouth, and they keep their hands clasped trying not to smile at each other like dorks. After a second she lifts his hand to examine it more closely. She brings it down realizing something without letting his hand go.  
“Huh,” she says.  
He eyes her curiously, “What?”  
She appraises his face as he waits for her response not sure if he should start feeling self-conscious.  
“You’re tanned,” she says in a tone that implies this is something he doesn’t already know.  
He wrinkles his nose in disagreement. “Nah.”  
“Yeah,” she says. “You are. Actually tanned.”  
She looks down the sides of his face, down his neck. “I didn’t think you could.”  
He squirms under her gaze, but can’t hide his amusement.  
“I’m burnt,” he says. “It’s a fading burn.”  
She chokes back a giggle.  
“Now you’re laughing at me,” he says.  
She sobers and puts her free hand to his cheek. “Does it hurt?”  
He shakes his head imperceptibly. His blue eyes twinkle at her touch, and he pulls her hand from his face. With both hands clasped, the air shifts. He’s always warm. He looks down at their clasped hands and smiles a little to himself. Her hands are freezing. Always. This feels familiar. He inches his head forward.  
“I know we need to have a conversation,” he says.  
She nods. Now his face is inches from hers. He smells like she remembers, a mix of musk, spearmint and English Breakfast.  
“A few,” she says.  
She closes her eyes right before he kisses her. The kiss is soft and hesitant, lips brushing against lips. She pulls away to see his face. He opens his eyes too. She blushes into their clasped hands. He beams at her and touches his forehead against hers. She pulls him closer to kiss him more fully. When they finally break away, she wraps her arms around him in a tight embrace unhappy with any physical distance. This doesn’t feel like a mistake, she thinks. She is not being rational or practical. There are lists of questions that threaten to be heard if she gives them even the slightest attention. She doesn’t. Not yet. Instead only one thought comes to her mind.  
“Are you here for good?” she asks. “With me for good?”  
He nods into her shoulder.   
“With you,” he says kissing her shoulder after every other word. “For good.”   
She nods her head reassuring herself.   
“I love you,” he says.  
She pulls back to look at his face and threads her hand through his hair.  
“Fitz,” she whispers.   
And it’s almost like an ‘I love you’ back. Despite the worry, despite the difficult conversations that are sure to follow, despite...There’s a slight buzzing in her ear. She blinks, and remembers. Remembers everything. He pulls her back in, and she closes her eyes; drinking in their kiss. She wants to remember this exact moment. She wants to remember the solid feeling of his presence, the feel of his hair, his hands. She wants to remember every detail. She wants to remember before it all turns into just a memory in her mind. She pulls away to catch her breath, and matches her smile to his. Her breath is haggard. She sighs.   
“I wish you were real,” she says. “I wish you were really here.”  
His smile stays fixed, but his eyes flicker in confusion.  
“Jemma?” he says.  
She closes her eyes, and when she opens them again he is gone.   
She rises from a kind of slat, cushioned and draped over with a thin, white sheet. She swings her legs over to touch the ground. Her pale blue robes follow her, hiding her bare feet. The concrete floor is cold. She touches the backs of her hands to her cheeks and smiles despite the disorientation. It shouldn’t amuse her that her hands are cold. As she touches her face she notices that her cheeks are dry. She wrinkles her nose at the sight of her fingertips, wondering at the gold paint. She closes her eyes. Her mind is clear now, a cold comfort. There’s a table and a chair in the room. A glass of water, a glass pitcher and a small cup with two pills are on the table. The room is pleasantly warm. She sits down at the chair, puts the pills in her mouth, and takes a gulp of the water. The day hasn’t even begun, and yet she is so incredibly tired. There’s a slight ringing in her ears or maybe that’s just her imagination. She rises from her chair at the sound of a voice in her head. There is no ringing now.  
“I’m ready, Jemma,” Kasius says.  
There is no one in the room with her, but she walks out of the room, and turns left down the hall. She sees many people as she passes, but talks to no one. No one talks to her. The ends of her mouth turn up in what could be taken as a serene smile. She is not afraid. She is not waiting to be rescued. She is going to be just fine. She knows what she needs to do.


End file.
